


Ballads of Thedas

by Jessiphile



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessiphile/pseuds/Jessiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every bard has a tale to tell. Prompts, drabbles, stream of consciousness, etc. Varying subject matter/lengths, no deadlines. Ongoing probably forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballads of Thedas

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything other than my feelings, of which there many and greatly contributed to this mess.

"Do not follow me," she said, but he has never stopped.

It begins the instant the Blight is over - when the beast falls and hers is not a face among those who exult in their victory, he searches. First in the rubble where he hopes beyond hope she is not, and then, when bitter relief balms his mind, the palace where all of Ferelden cheers his name. If Morrigan had not perished in the battle, she would not be here: this is a truth he accepts grimly. He knows she could not stay; she had told him herself. He should not be wanting for her. He is not driven mad for the thought that his weakness then might have made her laugh.

Mathril, now called a hero, endures only what he must of ceremonies. When he leaves, none try to stop him, so plain his heartache.

Months slide by; their passing yields little answers. As leads drew empty, physical traces either lost or already claimed, he looks for her in the Fade. The memories bring him temporary peace. Once, and only once, he almost concedes to those of capricious and questionable loyalty that she has abandoned him - but he thinks of her belly, how it must be growing. Anger tightens his fist around a sheaf of notes and runework. He isn't sure whether it is for Morrigan, himself, or the helpless, flailing inevitability of the circumstance they shared. For him, his anger is a boon, and he uses it to burn himself out of complacency when time toils ever onward. 

He is tired when he finds the Eluvian. Distractions had veered him from his course, the woes of his men and all they stood for - all they protected - eventually too great to ignore for his pains. Most men are fortunate enough to see their children into the world, would kill any who tried to keep them, and Mathril wishes it was so easy. He sees her, and she is as he remembers, thin and beautiful - and how could she not be? He has counted the days and knows well enough of these matters that nature waits for none, not even he who had prevented its destruction and left it unspoiled. It is again anger that sprawls through his mind like a fog, but it doesn't have time to thicken before she tells him of their son.

His son.

Dread follows them. 

"He is an innocent," she says, but he remembers the bargain. As Morrigan produces the bundle of warm blankets housing their son, he almost expects a demon. She lets him part cloth perfectly folded, and there is no darkness in what he sees. There is no reflection of his nightmares from the Circle, nor eldritch guile of his own making. It's just a boy. 

He looks like his mother. Mathril sleeps next to both and does not leave until he hears the singing.


End file.
